The Only Café

by Linden MacIntyre

  Then his cellphone rang. It was Leo. “Hey, what’s up? We’ve all been wondering where you’ve got to.”

  Cyril told him that he’d just signed his first contract. It was for six months, but six months was like tenure in the media in the current circumstances.

  “Well, I think we should celebrate.”

  “Maybe just you and I? A drink? How about tonight?”

  “I’m tied up tonight,” said Leo. “How about tomorrow night? And we should invite the other guys. You can tell us all about it. Maybe I’ll ask a few other people. What about Gloria? You guys still on the outs?”

  “It’s pretty well over,” Cyril said. “But I might bring a friend.”

  “For sure. Bring her…”

  “Not a her, Leo. A guy from work.”

  When he’d hung up Nader was standing by his desk scrolling through his cellphone. “So what was your takeaway from our little seance?”

  “I wish I could have taken notes.”

  “They said nothing we don’t already know.”

  “I was surprised when you mentioned the contractor.”

  “That was a gamble and I’m not convinced we should have been so specific about the foreign connection. But anyway. So we should go to see your buddy at the Only Café. See how he reacts to us. Or if he’s even there. If he’s their guy, which would be a long shot, they would tell him about the rumours. Man, that would be something. But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I’m more worried about our people than I am about them.”

  “Our people?”

  “Suzanne. Hughes. Savage.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Nader sighed and dropped a hand lightly on Cyril’s shoulder. “You’ll see.”

  Aggie was effusive. She hugged him. “Your father would have been so proud.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Believe it. This calls for a toast. Get the Grey Goose out of the freezer.”

  He poured generously. His mother asked, “Shall we sit in the living room?”

  “No. It’s only for six months. I think we’re still at the kitchen table stage.”

  “There was never any doubt in my mind,” she declared. “You’ve got your father’s brains and your granddad’s gumption. I can’t wait to tell Grandpa Lynch.”

  Cyril laughed. “Two things he always said he didn’t trust, lawyers and reporters.”

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “He always makes exceptions when he knows people.”

  “It isn’t really such a big deal.”

  “Here and now, it is a big deal. Let’s just celebrate the moment. Top me up.”

  He stood, retrieved the vodka bottle. “Okay. But easy on the pressure. Please?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with pressure,” Aggie said. “Pressure leads to progress, your grandpa always said.”

  “When you’re free we’ll meet in Savage’s office,” Suzanne said the next morning. “Take a few minutes and think about what we’re going to say.”

  “Who’s going to be there?” Nader asked.

  “You, me, Cyril, the lawyer…”

  “What lawyer?”

  “Someone from Ottawa. I don’t know her. I think she must be new.”

  Nader nodded.

  “You okay, Nader?” Suzanne asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” He was staring at his BlackBerry, scrolling.

  “I hate when you go quiet.”

  He laughed and looked up at her. “Just tell me when.”

  The presence of the unfamiliar lawyer seemed to change the chemistry among them. Cyril felt a disturbing coolness from Savage in particular.

  “Okay. Suzanne,” Savage said, “why don’t you just walk us through what you’ve got.”

  His tone suggested that he was as unconnected to the story as the lawyer. When Suzanne spoke it was as if she was briefing skeptical outsiders. Cyril made a mental note: the meeting with the spies was friendlier.

  The lawyer’s name was Martha and Cyril couldn’t help feeling a certain comfort from the fact that she was attractive and smiled a lot.

  “So here’s the situation,” Suzanne said. “We have reason to believe the national security service has contracted out part of a highly sensitive surveillance operation here in Toronto to a foreign operative with a murky history, or that foreign spies are working here without the knowledge of our government, monitoring our mosques. Whatever the case, there are aspects of the surveillance that appear to be borderline instigation.”

  “Fascinating,” Martha said. “Now when you say ‘instigation’…”

  “Yes,” Suzanne said. “Nader?”

  “Instigation is a good word,” Nader said. “It’s no secret that extremists are instigating, on the Internet, in the mosques. I think the security folks and the smart people in the community are on top of that. But there’s also instigation by our security apparatus…”

  “Apparatus?” The lawyer frowned.

  “Whatever. Mounties. CSIS. Maybe foreigners. To flush out radical tendencies by inflaming them. It’s possible that Israel is involved. Here. With or without our say so.”

  “Hmm,” Martha said and made a note.

  Nader hesitated until she looked up again. “I’m talking to a lot of young people who see the uprising in Syria as something larger than a rebellion against Assad,” he said. “It could ultimately be an attempt to redraw the map of the region to create a new national entity that will become a kind of homeland for people with a shared vision of ethnic and doctrinal purity in a world that has marginalized and humiliated them…”

  “We’ve heard all that before,” said Savage. “Can you really blame Israel for getting antsy?”

  “Of course not,” Nader said. “But back to our story—a lot of young Muslims are drawn to what they see as a historical correction…”

  “Correction of what?” said Savage.

  “Well, from their point of view, a hundred years of cultural and economic stagnation.”

  “What about your point of view?” Savage asked.

  “I hardly think that’s relevant.”

  “Let’s be realistic,” Savage said.

  Nader stood. “Maybe I should…”

  Suzanne grabbed his hand. “Sit,” she said. He sat.

  “You were going to meet with the security people,” Savage said.

  “We had a briefing,” Suzanne said.

  “What did they have to say about this supposed infiltration?”

  “Well, nothing specific, one way or the other. You wouldn’t expect them to…”

  “I’m hearing denial here, guys.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Suzanne said. “Denial by those guys would be confirmation as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me what they said,” Doc insisted.

  “Look,” Suzanne said. “The big political picture is exactly as Nader has described it. We know there’s a trickle of people heading for Syria and Iraq. We can safely predict that many of them will die over there or grow disillusioned and come home sadder and wiser than when they went away. Nader, continue.”

  “Then there are the ones who will come back radicalized and hardened by their experiences. It’s unlikely there’ll be very many like that but it only takes one or two. And there is real concern in the community that there will be some kind of pre-emptive action by the government to suppress these jihadist impulses and that it will include harassment and detention. And that the perceived bullying will turn a lot of ordinary people into radicals.”

  Martha smiled. “Harassment? That’s pretty strong. We have the Charter.”

  “Well,” said Nader. “Spies and provocateurs don’t always respect Charter rights. And we have a government that isn’t above creating laws that disrespect the Charter…”

  “Which is why we have the courts, to defend the Charter,” Martha said.

  “Politics and paranoia aside,” said Savage. “You’re really saying that either o
ur security service or someone else has embedded an Israeli spook in a highly sensitive security operation and it’s potentially provocative. That’s our story, right? What can you tell us about this person.”

  “Not much yet,” Nader said. “We don’t have a name. His specialty is counter-terrorism operations. He cut his teeth in Lebanon. Speaks Arabic. Also French and English. We have a lead on someone who might know him. Who might even be him. We’re pursuing that just now.”

  “Okay,” Savage said. “But who’s going to go on TV and talk about this?”

  “It’s a problem,” Nader said. “In the current climate even the usual public voices are keeping it low-key. Nobody wants to get on the security service radar.”

  “Yes,” said Savage. “And it’s a real fucking problem for us. How do you tell a story if there’s no proof of anything and nobody who will talk? And on top of that you have what sounds to me like an official denial.”

  Nader shrugged. Suzanne sighed deeply and shook her head. “Come on, Doc.”

  Martha spoke. “From a legal perspective this is all premature, though I appreciate the early involvement.” She stood. “I have a plane to catch. Doc? Always a joy.”

  Savage came from behind his desk, seized both her hands, kissed both cheeks. “Martha, next time perhaps a drink?”

  “Love to,” she said. “Keep me posted. I want to be in on this at every stage.”

  “She wants to be in on this at every stage. That’s a laugh.” Nader laughed.

  “What are you talking about?” Cyril said. “I thought you were great. And Suzanne, too, the way she laid it out. Savage was just being the devil’s advocate.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Nader.

  “By the way,” said Cyril. “An old friend wants to have a party to celebrate my new job. Why don’t you come with me?”

  “I don’t know, man. I don’t think…”

  “Come on. We need a break. You can be my designated driver.”

  “Driver? You’ve got wheels now?”

  “Wait until you see.”

  Nader sighed, then smiled: “Okay. You’ve talked me into it.”

  Nader told Cyril he’d meet him outside the St. George subway station. It was a clear night with a half-full moon. For the first time since he’d inherited the Mustang Cyril felt that it belonged to him, and that he belonged behind the wheel.

  “Well now,” Nader said as he buckled up and inspected the car’s interior. “Where’d you find this?”

  “It belonged to my father. It’s been in storage for the past five years. He bought it on a whim…it’s a 1975.”

  “Sweet.”

  “I thought of selling it but I’m getting attached to it.”

  “Ah, you don’t want to part with this, man. This is you. Now who’s your friend? What should I expect?”

  “Leo. I’ve known him since kindergarten. He’s an ironworker, one of those guys who works in high places. He earns a pile but lives low-key. Real modest.”

  Leo and three others were sitting in the living room when Cyril and Nader arrived. Introductions were exchanged. Cyril promptly forgot the names of the other guests, except for the girl, Megan, who was memorably pretty and seemed to be about nineteen.

  He presented Nader as one of the network’s investigative stars. Nader shrugged and laughed. “Cyril has a lot to learn,” he said.

  “Megan’s also a journalist,” said Leo.

  Megan said. “I work at Metro, okay? If you want to call that journalism.”

  It was a tabloid daily giveaway distributed mostly at subway stations. “Everybody has to start somewhere,” Nader said.

  “So where did you start?” she asked.

  “U of T,” said Nader. “The Varsity…”

  “I didn’t know you went to U of T,” Cyril interjected.

  “Then a chase job at Canada AM. That one nearly finished me. Showing up for work at four in the morning. Been where I am the past five years, with a year off to study Arabic. Just back.”

  Megan laughed. “Very cool.”

  Cyril wandered to the kitchen where there were many bottles of wine arrayed with plastic glasses on the countertop. He opened the refrigerator, which was packed with beer. On the table there were plastic-wrapped trays of sandwiches. He felt his cheer disintegrating. Leo had planned a celebration party but nobody was coming. He’d planned to drink only wine, to pace himself for what he expected to be a long and lively evening. Pointless. He poured a stiff Scotch from the bottle he’d brought with him. Then he returned to the brightly lit living room.

  “There you are,” said Leo. “You missed my little announcement.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’ve inspired and motivated me.” He raised a glass. “Here’s to my buddy Cyril. And here’s to me.”

  Cyril raised his glass, then sipped. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m hanging up the old hard hat,” Leo said. “Been accepted at U of T. Finally going to finish that degree I started six years ago, but quit when I discovered I could make more money in construction than my tenured profs were earning for boring me to death. Anyway, I’m going to take another crack at the books, if it isn’t too late.”

  “What field?” Nader asked.

  “Economics. What did you take?”

  “History,” said Nader. “Been thinking of going back for my master’s.”

  “Cool,” said Leo.

  Cyril toasted Leo, gulped his drink and drifted back into the kitchen and poured another. Off the kitchen Leo had a small desk and a chair in an alcove. Cyril sat, thinking that if he hadn’t been impulsive Gloria would be here right now—a bright spot in a deadly scene. He considered texting. Or even calling. Then he felt an unspecific wave of anger. Gulped his second drink. To avoid pouring a third he went into the bathroom, locked the door, and sat on the edge of the bathtub studying his hands.

  “Shit,” he said out loud.

  Eventually he became aware of the increased frequency of doorknob turns and rattles. Finally a voice. “Somebody dying in there?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just a sec,” he called back. Stood, flushed, ran the tap briefly and then unlocked the door. There were three people waiting outside in the hallway.

  “You okay, man?” one of them asked. Cyril didn’t recognize him.

  “Yeah. Good.”

  The apartment was now packed with people and lit only by wavering candles and a stove light in the kitchen. There was a din of voices, loud music playing in the living room.

  Okay, he thought. Went into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine.

  In the living room, Leo, Neil and Scott were in a corner working on a joint. Leo was talking through his teeth, eyes pinched shut. Cyril demurred when Leo waved the joint in his direction. He wondered if Nader was still there.

  He found him sitting on the side of Leo’s bed, deep in conversation with the reporter, Megan.

  “Sorry,” he said, and began backing out of the room.

  “No, no, no,” said Nader. “We were wondering where you got to.”

  “I was just telling Nader that I’ve applied for an internship at the Star,” Megan said. “He tells me you started as an intern recently.”

  He sat. “I lucked out,” he said. “Now I get to work with this guy.”

  “I’m hoping for something like that,” she said. “My goal is to work on their jihad project.”

  “Their what?” Cyril asked.

  “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that,” she said, flustered. “But this is off the record, right?”

  “Of course,” said Nader. “So what’s the jihad project?”

  “You know. Young people getting recruited…but I shouldn’t say any more.”

  “No,” said Nader. “Probably you shouldn’t.”

  “So, what do we make of that?” Cyril asked.

  Nader was driving. It was just after midnight. The party was in full swing when they’d made their excuses and left. “Work day tomorrow,” Cyril had
explained. Hardly anybody heard and only Megan seemed chagrined.

  “Make of what?”

  “The Star working on our story.”

  “I’d be very surprised if they were working on our story. Probably another newspaper feature about homegrown radicals. Old story, been done. Being refreshed now by the Syria thing. I doubt if they have a news hook.”

  “Like we do…”

  “Like we hope we do.”

  “I feel pretty confident.”

  “Good.”

  Cyril lapsed into a silence.

  “I could fall in love with this vehicle,” Nader said. “If you were serious about selling it I hope you’d talk to me first.”

  “Absolutely.”

  At a red light Nader said, “This Megan. We should keep in touch. I have a hunch she’ll get that internship. She gave me her number. She said she really wants to be in television. She certainly has the look. In any case, it would be nice to know what they’re getting up to at the Star.”

  “I think she was kind of taken by you, Nader. You two looked good on a bed.”

  “Nah. She’s young and ambitious. I think you should take the initiative. You have more in common.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Work-wise. You’re just past the internship stage. I think she’d be more comfortable talking to you. I’m older, and with me she was just asking questions. And of course you have the car.”

  “How old are you, Nader?”

  “Getting up there. Twenty-eight going on twenty-nine.”

  “Jeez.”

  “Who knows where it could go, you and Megan.”

  “Nah. I’m still a bit shell-shocked by my last relationship.”

  “That’s another plus. You need some kind of transitional diversion.”

  “Maybe. Did you find her attractive?”

  “Very.”

  “Okay. So you should go for it.”

  “Nope. I’m saving myself for a nice Muslim virgin. Or seventy-two.”

  “All those virgins in paradise?”